Classic Poem

Master of discords John
Makes harmony seem wrong;
His treble sings to his bass
Like a sow consoling her young.

If he played with his shoulder blades
He'd make a pleasanter tone;
He reaches out for a chord
As a dog snaps at a bone.

Playing away to himself,
Nobody knows what tune,
Even the man who made it
Cannot recall his own.

A wonder, the way he works,
He never keeps tune or time;
With skill and care he goes wrong,
Mountains of error climb.

Give him the simplest catch
And at once you're in at the kill;
He mangles it patiently
Like an old loud derelict mill.

Copper scratched with a knife,
Brass cut with a rasp,
His nails scrape at the strings
Till all shudder and gasp.

God help you, gentle harp,
Pounded and plagued by his fist,
There isn't a chord in your breast
Without a sprain or twist.